Yet Joe’s soul grew sick within him as time 220 passed, and no such break came through the storm-laden air. For Dawson, as well as had he stood on deck, knew that this endless, malignant fury of the gale must sooner or later start the seams of the staunch little craft. Or else, struck by a wave bigger than any others, she would lie so far over on her beam ends that she must finish the manœuvre by “turning turtle”—lying with her keel uppermost, and the crew penned underneath to drown in haste.
“Nothing to report yet, Joe, old fellow?” came down Captain Tom’s brave though anxious voice for perhaps the fortieth time.
“No reply to our signals, Tom,” went back the answer.
“Do you think our spark is still strong enough to carry far?”
“Plenty of electric ‘juice’ left,” Joe responded. “The spark is as strong as ever. Oh, if we only had as much gasoline!”
“Oh, if we only had!”
But ten minutes after that last call Joe again sent forth:
“C.Q.D.! C.Q.D.!”
Then down the receivers traveled a click—not loud, yet unmistakable.
“Where are you? Answer!” came the response, out of the air from some quarter. 221